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"Then he's merely a bloodsucking, heartless parasite, rather than a mass murderer." Rem calmly crossed one leg over the other. "To answer your original question, I want Harris and Templar ready to grab Knollwood immediately after I meet with him Monday night." Rem's eyes gleamed with the triumph of ensuring justice would soon be served. "At which point, the 'terms' of my agreement with Mr. Knollwood will alter ... as will the person dictating them."
Muffled laughter intruded on Sammy's last remnants of sleep, coaxing her eyelids to open. At first she wasn't certain where the sound came from, only that it was close by. Curious, she sat up in bed . . . and smiled.
Romping on the floor, both buoyant and panting, were Rascal and Cynthia. They were evidently in the middle of a competitive bid for Cynthia's stocking, one end of which was tightly clenched in Cynthia's hand, the other firmly fixed between Rascal's small but effective teeth.
"I'd let you have it, honestly," Cynthia was promising between chuckles. "But it's my best pair. Can I substitute a different one, perhaps?"
Rascal wagged his tail cheerfully, but made no attempt to relinquish the garment.
"Don't humor him, Cynthia." Sammy climbed out of bed. "He's entirely too spoiled as it is." She snapped her fingers. "Drop it!"
Rascal eyed Sammy, apparently debating which meant more, his mistress's affection or his new possession. The decision, thankfully, never needed to be made.
"Oh, you're awake, my lady." Millie pressed open the door and inched in, carrying a tray of hot chocolate and scones.
Seeing his opportunity, Rascal bolted down the hallway, stocking in mouth.
"I'm sorry, Cynthia." Sammy rolled her eyes to the heavens. "Rascal is well-named—he's still as devilish as the day I got him."
"He's precious."
"He's impossible." Sammy sighed. "But luckily for him, I happen to adore him. I'll replace your stockings."
"Pardon me, my lady . . ." Millie still hovered in the doorway, looking bewilderedly from the fleeing pup to his mistress. "I brought your breakfast—Cook thought you'd be tired after your evening at the opera. But I didn't know you had a guest. I have only enough for one."
"It's not your fault, Millie," Sammy hastened to assure her. "Cynthia spent the night unexpectedly." Already Millie's eyes were growing suspiciously damp. The last thing Sammy needed right now was for her maid to dissolve into a customary round of tears. "This is my friend, Cynthia. Cynthia, this is Millie"—Sammy shot Cynthia a meaningful look—"my lady's maid."
Cynthia nodded her understanding. "Nice to meet you, Millie." Millie curtsied, nearly upsetting the tray. "Oh dear!" She steadied the rattling china and sped across the room to deposit the tray on Sammy's nightstand. "I'll get more," she blurted, backing from the room. "Food, I mean. I'll only be a moment. I'll be right back. It's nice to meet you, too, ma'am." Like a terrified rabbit, she bolted.
"Do you see what I mean?" Sammy asked, noting the spark of amusement in Cynthia's eyes.
"I do."
"Well, we'll soon remedy that. After breakfast, you and I will talk to Smitty and everything will be resolved."
"Surely you don't think I should go with you to consult your guardian."
"Why not? It's your life we're discussing."
"But I'm just—"
"You're not just anything, Cynthia." Sammy seized her new friend's hand, dragging her over to the looking glass. "You're a beautiful, sensitive woman who's been scandalously mistreated. Stop demeaning yourself—I won't have it."
Cynthia stared at her reflection, her dark eyes wide, vulnerable. The pristine nightrail Samantha had loaned her billowed about her slender form, seeming to mock her by its very presence. Her masses of wheat-colored hair were disheveled, draped about her shoulders. How did she look?
Like a whore.
Unable to bear the shame, Cynthia lowered her eyes. "It's ironic. What happened to me wasn't my fault, and I know it. I despise the man responsible, and all the men who have followed in his wake. But when all is said and done, they've managed to reduce me to exactly what they believe me to be—a common prostitute." She wrapped her arms about herself and averted her head. "The only emotion left inside me is enmity; I hate them ... and I hate myself."
"You saved my life," Sammy returned in an unsteady voice. "Not many women would have risked their own safety to protect a total stranger. How can you doubt your worth?"
"Women judge other women differently than men judge them, Samantha. And since it's men's opinions that matter, I'm unworthy for any decent life, and unfit company for you."
"Not all men think like that."
"I beg to differ with you, my naive friend. Men relegate women to two varieties, each separate, but necessary: a chaste paragon on their arm and a skillful whore in their bed. No woman can be both."
"Drake's not like that. He loves Alex."
